


On the Relative Value of Terrible Pick-Up Lines

by AwkwardTiming



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Frottage, Kissing, M/M, Mostly Fluff, bartender!lock, inappropriate use of internet research, ridiculous pick-up lines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2015-12-01
Packaged: 2018-05-04 08:00:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5326667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AwkwardTiming/pseuds/AwkwardTiming
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's spent 6 months trying to figure out how to talk to the bartender at his new favourite pub. His first attempt didn't go so well, but he decides to try again, armed with a friend's advice - try a pick-up line.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Relative Value of Terrible Pick-Up Lines

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Griselda_Howl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Griselda_Howl/gifts).



> In response to an absolutely darling prompt from GriseldaHowl.
> 
> Feel free to suggest additional tags. Or corrections.

Tonight. He was going to do it tonight.

Tonight.

Definitely. Because, well. It was the holidays, yeah? What better time for a miracle? The miracle that maybe – just maybe – John, who had once upon a time had a record of succeeding with anyone who caught his fancy that was the envy of his entire battalion, would manage to do more than order a drink from Sherlock, the bartender at his (now) favorite pub.

It had started six months ago.

John, escaping a mentally taxing and physically exhausting shopping trip with Harry – something he agreed to under slight duress because he really did need new things now he was trying to reestablish himself in civilian life in London and he really did need to find a job to do that – had stumbled into the nearest pub at just gone 4 and ordered a whiskey neat as he removed his jacket. He hadn’t looked up at the bartender until a smooth baritone said, “4 pounds, Doctor.” John had the brief impression of dark hair and pale skin as the bartender turned and made his way to the opposite end of the bar.

Settling in, John took a long sip, trying to quash the sudden, entirely unexpected, uptick of desire as he watched long legs in tight jeans make their way to the opposite end of the bar. Unexpected not because Sherlock was a man and John was, generally speaking, more drawn to women. But rather – even with James it had taken months of easy friendship for there to be a brief (entirely unsatisfied) hint that there might be something else – and this had required no such testing period.

John watched the screen of the television tucked into a corner showing some sort of sport recap as he drank his whiskey. When he finished, he set his glass on the bar and tried to catch the eye of the bartender. The bartender who was, John realized with a quickly suppressed wave of disappointment, in earnest, friendly chat with an attractive silver-haired man in a leather jacket at the other end of the bar. One who didn’t seem to need his sister to take him out clothes shopping.

John blew out a breath and reached for his wallet. Maybe just the one drink after all. His phone chirped as his fingers wrapped around his wallet and he let it go in favor of checking the message from his sister. He thought again that he needed to get phone numbers from people who might, potentially, text him so that he could pretend that someone else might be sending him a message.

The man at the other end of the bar stood to leave and John watched as he cupped a hand around the bartender’s neck in a friendly gesture and said something to him that had the bartender shaking his head and ducking away in a gesture that John would have guessed to be embarrassment, though the bartender didn’t seem the sort to be embarrassed.

As the man made his way to the door, the bartender set the glass he’d used in a tub under the bar and made his way back to where John was sitting.

“Sherlock?” the man called from the door.

John made a mental record of the name. It was unusual and suited the bartender perfectly.

Sherlock turned, a flash of mild annoyance making its way across his face. “Yes?”

“It would be nice if you’d actually call this time.”

For whatever reason, this made Sherlock smirk, “Lestrade, kindly fuck off. Don’t you have a job?”

“Love you too, you mad bastard. I’ll be in touch.” With that, the other man, Lestrade, was gone, leaving Sherlock and John alone.

Sherlock ran his hands through his hair and shook his head, then turned to look at John. “Sorry. Lager?” he said, reaching for and filling a pint glass before John could respond.

John nodded, wondering if he’d be able to engage the bartender in a bit of light flirtation, now the bar was empty and was disappointed when Sherlock dropped the drink off and returned to the other end of the bar before pulling out some sort of what looked to be a textbook and beginning to make notes. John wondered if this counted as two strikes – possibly dating someone else and also possibly too young for him.

John scrolled through the news on his phone as he drank and Sherlock didn’t look up from what he was doing until, with near-perfect timing, John prepared to set his now-empty glass back on the bar. He gave John a look that seemed to ask if he wanted another. John answered the unvocalised question with a small smile and shake of his head, dropped a couple notes on the bar, and left.

But that was six months ago. In the intervening time, John had gone in as often as possible – no fewer than three times a week – and always with the intention of striking up a conversation with Sherlock. He’d never managed to get beyond confirming his drink order before Sherlock would wander off.

But tonight – well, today, as it was only just gone 3 – John was determined to have a proper chat with his bartender. He had acknowledged, almost 3 months ago now, that he was well on his way to being in love with Sherlock, even if anything he knew about the man (including his name) was based purely on things he’d heard from other patrons or seen for himself.

To wit, Sherlock was:  
• Smart. Very.  
• Some sort of consultant for the Met when not behind a bar. Maybe. There were a handful of other theories.  
• Charming (based on some reports)  
• A complete arse (based on more reports)  
• Possibly a secret agent  
• Well fit  
• Skinny as anything  
• In possession of a rather fine posterior  
• Not twelve, though he looked it on occasion

Perhaps most relevant, though, was a sort of undercurrent of adventure that John felt around Sherlock – something John hadn’t really felt since Her Majesty’s government had found him no longer fit for active duty.

In short, John wanted – needed – to know more. For the adventure.

Today, then. Today, John would engage the elusive Sherlock in conversation to get to know the man in his own words. Or at least find out his last name so that John could google him when he returned to his flat to look him up online. There weren’t many Sherlocks in the world, but it would be good to have the confirmation of a last name.

John took a deep breath to calm his nerves and walked inside. Step one: order something different to force a slightly longer initial interaction. John sighed. The bar wasn’t empty, as he’d expected it to be, which would make it harder to keep Sherlock’s attention, once he got it.

Also, Sherlock was already setting a pint of lager at John’s preferred spot.

On the other hand, as Sherlock deposited the glass, he said, “You don’t actually enjoy gin. Reminds you of unfortunate things with your mother,” only to wander off immediately. John took it as a positive indication that Sherlock was slightly more aware of him than one might expect for an average bartender-patron relationship. Maybe.

Twenty minutes on, Sherlock came back over with a second pint, swapping the full glass for the empty one John had just set down.

John recognized it as the best opening he was likely to get and forged on without properly considering what he was going to say. “So, I’ve heard you’re great at problem solving. I’ve got a sort of issue with …”

Sherlock held up a finger to stop him. “I solve mysteries, cases. Not domestic problems. While there is a horrid cliché about bartenders being amateur therapists – and possibly some other bartender may have better luck sorting you out than your current actual therapist has done – let me assure you: I am not that sort of bartender.”

John gaped.

Sherlock blinked, as though astounded so many words had left his mouth, colour rushing across his cheeks and down his neck, then spun on his heel and stalked away to refill the glasses of a trio of women who’d been trying to get his attention.

John sipped at his lager, trying to sort out how he felt about the interaction. Clearly it hadn’t gone at all well, but maybe not so poorly that an attempt at conversation at a later date, might not be more successful. When he could make it more about making a friend and less about his attraction to the man. Also, Sherlock was busy. And observant. And he hadn’t been unkind, precisely. Maybe.

He could tell he wasn’t quite there on the whole this-is-just-an-overture-of-friendship-thing though when the man – Lestrade, his memory helpfully supplied – showed up. Sherlock greeted Lestrade in a friendlier manner than anyone else he’d interacted with since John’s arrival. John noted with morbid fascination, the slight softening of his features that John guessed must pass as Sherlock’s version of a smile. Lestrade had picked a seat within listening distance of John, so John heard quite clearly Sherlock engage the other man in conversation.

“Checking up on me?”

“Someone needs to,” said Lestrade, his tone fond, John noted.

“And you volunteered?” Sherlock’s tone was arch, nearly flirtatious.

“Always. I have a … new thing. When are you off?”

“I’m scheduled to close,” Sherlock said, his tone brightening with interest. “Someone else should be here soon, though, and I can probably leave after that.” 

John, busy checking his phone so it wouldn’t appear that he was paying close attention to the exchange, missed the glance Sherlock threw his way and the answering grin on Lestrade’s face as Sherlock’s attention returned to him. “Usual room?” John heard Sherlock ask.

“Yeah. Everything’s there. Could use your opinion on the new piece. Should I wait for you?”

“No,” Sherlock said. “I’ll catch a cab.”

“Great.” Lestrade returned his now empty glass to the bar. “I’ll see you soon, yeah?”

Sherlock nodded a quick goodbye, filling drinks for a group at the end of the bar and making his way back around, serving other customers as he went. John finished his drink quickly, left his payment, and found his way outside before Sherlock could return to him. No point in sticking around. Clearly “today” wasn’t to be.

He missed the twist of disappointment on Sherlock’s lips as he made his way out the door.

Three weeks later, now just a few days before Christmas, found John on a pub crawl with some rugby mates from his school days. They were three hours in and John wasn’t at all sure how many pubs they’d been to or how many drinks they’d had. What he was quite sure of, though, was that he needed to go to Sherlock’s pub. The Cook’s Alley. No. Something. Anyway. It was where Sherlock was (probably) and that was all that mattered. Name was irrelevant. He knew how to get there and that was the important part.

He could try one more time.

Best idea. Just in time for Christmas. It could be his present. From Santa. 

John turned to head toward Chef’s Boulevard.

“Watson! Where’re you going, mate? We’re headed this way,” someone behind him called.

John waved the other men off. “I think I’m done for the night, lads.”

Easy-going group as they were, they continued on in the opposite direction with a chorus of “goodbyes” and “see you soons.” John hoped for just a bit of luck – that Sherlock would be there. He’d nothing else to do for the evening, so he could stick around as long as it took to finally get the conversation he’d been hoping for. Or any conversation at all. 

He was armed with Mark’s advice. “Pick-up lines, Watson. Most underrated way of getting the girl you fancy.”

John certainly hoped it would hold true for Sherlock, though the bartender was clearly not a girl.

John was pleased that he managed to make it into the pub and up to the bar without stumbling. Better yet, the gods were clearly smiling down on him – Sherlock was working.

“Sherlock!” John called out, not bothering to suppress his grin.

Sherlock’s head whipped around and he made his way to where John was sitting, waving away a bartender John didn’t recognize at the same time. 

“Hi,” John said, continuing to grin. 

“Hello,” Sherlock said.

John’s grin spread as he realized Sherlock’s face had done the “relaxing” thing. “I need a drink,” he said, utterly pleased with himself.

“I rather suspect that is not the case,” Sherlock replied, with a tilt of his head and a slight narrowing of his eyes.

“I’d like one anyway,” John said firmly, with a nod, still grinning.

Sherlock gave a sort of nod in return and John relaxed a bit, crossing his arms in front of him on the bar and slumping down, waiting for Sherlock’s return.

Sherlock set a glass of water on the bar in front of him.

John narrowed his eyes at it then looked up. “Not what I meant.”

“Drink it anyway,” Sherlock replied and started to turn away again.

“Wait!” John said, his voice louder than intended. He slapped a hand over his own mouth, only to pull it away, grin returning to his face.

Sherlock paused and turned back with an eyebrow raised in question.

“Can I ask you something?” John said with a tilt of his head.

John could see that Sherlock wanted to refuse, but he gave a cautious nod and stepped closer.

“Did it hurt?” John asked.

“What?” 

“Did it hurt? When you fell from heaven?” John’s grin widened and he waggled his eyebrows, then took a drink of his water.

“I … what?” Sherlock had moved to stand directly in front of John, his face a mask of confusion.

John nodded to the plain black button down shirt Sherlock was wearing. “That’s a nice shirt.”

Sherlock looked down at his shirt then back to John.

“Can I talk you out of it?”

Sherlock stared, blinking rapidly.

John pressed gamely on. “So… are you here to meet a nice man?” John paused half a second for Sherlock to try to figure out if he was expected to reply. “Or will I do?” John winked, taking another long swig of his water.

Sherlock’s lips twitched and he shifted to lean a hip against the bar.

John stared at him a moment, the noise of the bar fading in the warm glow of finally finally having Sherlock’s attention. Sherlock made a sort of “go on” motion with one hand before crossing his arms, still watching John.

John cleared his throat. “I can say hello in 11 languages. Which would you like tomorrow morning?”

Sherlock scratched the back of his neck, still focused on John, flushing slightly.

John forged gamely on. “Apart from being sexy, what do you do for a living?”

Sherlock broke eye contact briefly to refill John’s water glass.

“Can I follow you home?” John asked as Sherlock set the water pitcher back down.

“What?” Sherlock looked up, startled.

John shrugged, lifting his water to his lips, “My parents told me to follow my dreams.” His eyes crinkled as he took another drink. Setting his glass down and checking to see if Sherlock was still paying attention he said, “I lost my teddy bear. Can I sleep with you instead?”

“John, I…”

John held out his hand. “Can you hang on to this while I go for a walk?”

Sherlock looked down at John’s hand, then back up at his face, confused and starting to look slightly panicked. “What… are you doing?”

“Wait… wait. Uh. Right. Are you full of beryllium, gold, and titanium?”

Sherlock frowned and John could see him trying to work out how that might be relevant.

“Because you are be-au-ti- full.”

“That’s terrible,” Sherlock deadpanned, relaxing and shaking his head with a grin.

With a grin, John tugged at his collar. “Is it hot in here or is that just you?” Seeing Sherlock tilt his head but keep his mouth shut, John continued gamely on with, “If I said you had a beautiful body, would you hold it against me?

Sherlock snorted. “You are a funny man, John Watson.”

John smiled widely. “You know my name.”

“You pay with a card fairly regularly,” Sherlock replied, ducking his head and glancing to the side and John briefly wondered if he was embarrassed.

“Fair. So. First date. Tomorrow – or tonight if you’re game. I was thinking dinner and a movie, then back to mine.”

“What? No, I don’t –” Sherlock’s eyes went wide.

“Like movies? Alright then. Just dinner and full sex then?” John teased. 

“No. No, I…”

“Oh. Ok. Hm. I guess we can skip dinner. Maybe…” John chewed at his lower lip for a moment, trying to decide on a last ditch effort that might allow him to see the man outside the bar in some sort of social context. Sherlock was working, though, and John knew he’d kept him from his duties far longer than he probably should have done. He had to be quick. “How about we wander around London until we find a corpse and I’ll tell you how they died.” John blinked rapidly as he realized what he’d just said and tried to figure out why he’d said it. “No. Sorry. Ignore that. That’s… I don’t know why I’ve said that.”

Suddenly Sherlock was paying more serious attention. “You’re a doctor. A military doctor.”

“Sorry?” John was sobering up, but still drunk enough that the abrupt change of topic was disorienting.

“Military. Doctor. The doctor was obvious the first time you came in. You had the wanted ads tucked into one of your shopping bags, turned to the medical section. Military equally clear from the way you hold yourself and the haircut you prefer.” Sherlock shifted in front of John and leaned in, placing one hand on either side of John’s face, his eyes flickering across John’s features. “And, best of all, you’re mostly sober now.”

John wasn’t entirely sure he wasn’t drowning in Sherlock’s eyes. The colour was unusual, but they seemed endlessly deep. If he were more adept at writing poetry, there were oceans of sonnets to be had, he was sure.

Sherlock released his face and straightened up. “I could use your help with something. Wait there.”

It was John’s turn to gape as what he’d thought of as a light, fun flirtation became he wasn’t quite sure what. He watched Sherlock say something to the other bartender, who looked annoyed, but waved him off with a nod.

Sherlock walked out from behind the bar and made his way to John. “Come along. Lestrade will be expecting us.”

John started as he slid from his stool. Lestrade? Sherlock’s…friend? Why would… “Sorry, what?”

“I’ll explain on the way, if you like. But we really must be on our way,” Sherlock replied, ushering John out the door with a hand on his lower back.

John debated refusing for half a second, but the combination of feeling needed by Sherlock and the warmth of Sherlock’s hand on his back propelled him forward.

John tried to sort through what Sherlock could possibly need. He’d become decidedly more interested once he remembered John was a doctor. So perhaps his… friend was injured. With a mental shrug, John decided that even if all it was was patching up his bartender’s boyfriend, well. At least it would answer that question, unasked though it was. And it would be interesting. And maybe he’d get a couple friends out of the deal.

John followed Sherlock into the back of the cab and started when Sherlock gave the direction as, “Scotland Yard,” before leaning against the other window, fingers thrumming against his knee.

“What?” John said.

Sherlock started and looked at him. “Hm? Oh. Yes. The photos will be there. Evidence room. Lestrade is staying until we have arrived.”

“So, there is a dead body, then? We’re going to look at a dead body. That wasn’t meant to be a suggestion. Not really.”

“What? No, of course not. Just the photos. Cold case that has been reopened. I insisted.”

“Right.”

“Problem?”

John shook his head slowly.

Sherlock frowned, studying John’s face. “We could go to the morgue after, if you were keen to see a dead body this evening. Molly should be there.”

“Right…” John was utterly baffled. “Not necessary, no.”

“Sex is… probably not on the cards for tonight, though. Probably.”

“What? Right. No. Sorry. Just. Not where I was expecting the evening to go. No need for the morgue. I didn’t actually mean to suggest looking for dead bodies as a date. Are you with the police?”

“No.”

John could sense a slight hesitation on Sherlock’s part, as though there was something more to be said so he attempted to encourage more information with a interested, “Oh. Then…?”

“We’re here,” Sherlock passed the payment forward, and looked pointedly at the door on John’s side of the car for him to get out.

Once they were both on the sidewalk, Sherlock led the way. John hastened to keep up with Sherlock’s long-legged stride as the other man made his way into the building and past reception, coming to a stop in front of a thin woman with a fierce expression on her face.

“What are you doing here?” John heard her ask.

“Lestrade is expecting me.”

John stepped up just behind and to the left of Sherlock.

“What’s this?” she asked with a jerk of her head to indicate John.

“He’s with me.”

Before anything more could be said, Lestrade came into the hall and repeated the woman’s question.

“He is with me,” Sherlock repeated. “Dr. John Watson. Former military doctor.”

“Ok,” Lestrade said. “But what is he doing here?”

“You have experts. I’ve brought my own.”

John opened his mouth to offer to wait outside after all, but Sherlock caught his eye and gave a minute shake of his head. John closed his mouth and turned to face Lestrade and the other officer with a bland expression on his face.

“Sherlock, you can’t just bring your dates to look at crime scene photos.”

“He’s not –” Sherlock began as John said, “I’m not –.”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “I was working, Lestrade.” He sighed. “Five minutes. I just want to prove a point and Dr. Watson should be able to help me do so.”

Lestrade huffed out a laugh and shook his head. “Alright then. Five minutes. Donavan, can you go find Dimmock? He had a question for Sherlock. Might as well get that while he’s here.”

Lestrade led the way back into the room and Sherlock turned to give John a quick smile. John cleared his throat to chase away the warmth he felt at that smile, trying to warn himself away from attributing the smile to anything more than the other man getting his way.

Lestrade started to speak once they were all standing in front of the evidence board with its array of photos. “Anderson’s quite sure on this Sherlock. He says –”

“No. I want John’s opinion before you taint it with that idiot’s half-formed thoughts.”

John expected Lestrade to stand up for this “Anderson” but he just sighed and waved John closer to the board.

“What am I looking at?” John asked Sherlock.

There was a beat before Sherlock replied with, “Photographs.”

John turned an amused look on him. “Yes. Thank you. Of what?”

Sherlock’s lips twitched. “Dead bodies.”

John rolled his eyes.

“There are four victims here. There is a fifth, we think, but never managed to find the body. Found in various locations, nothing overtly linking them,” Lestrade supplied. “Sherlock says they’re related.”

“How did they die – according to the autopsy report?” John asked, studying the photographs.

“Organ failure.”

John’s head jerked to look at Sherlock. “And you think it’s murder?”

“It is. They’ve been poisoned.”

“Blood tests ruled that out, Sherlock. Anderson –”

Sherlock scoffed and Lestrade scowled.

John cleared his throat and nodded. “And nothing links the victims?” Lestrade and Sherlock both shook their heads. “There aren’t many things that can cause organ failure without leaving a trace. I can’t really think of anything that does that honestly.” John let his eyes flick over the board, taking in the various crime scene photos. After a few moments of silence, something in one of the photographs caught John’s eye and, desperate to break the tension, he joked, “Shame this one didn’t get a chance to wash his hands before he died like the other four.”

“What?” Sherlock’s voice was sharp.

John shook his head, looking away from the photo, but pointing to where he’d been looking. “Nothing, just, he’s still got dirt under his nails.”

Sherlock stepped closer to the print and leaned in. “I need the autopsy reports,” he said softly, frowning. 

Whatever John was expecting to happen, it was not Lestrade turning to call for Donovan – the woman who had greeted them on their arrival – to bring them the autopsy files for the victims.

Sherlock took them from her and spread them out on the table. 

Several hours later, John was woken by a hand shaking his shoulder. He looked up to find Lestrade looking down at him.

“You may as well go home. Who knows how long he’ll be.”

John sat up straighter and stretched a bit, then stood. “Right. Ta.” He looked to where Sherlock stood, and gave a sort of nod to himself. No point in saying goodbye then. He seemed too wrapped in whatever he was looking at to notice anyway.

Lestrade walked him out. John could tell he wanted to ask questions and thanked the man’s circumspection that he asked none of them. John wasn’t really sure how he could explain why he’d agreed to follow Sherlock and was glad that Lestrade didn’t ask.

The next day, John made his rounds at the shops, picking up things for his own Christmas dinner. Harry had invited him to join her and Clara in Scotland, but he had no real interest in leaving London for the holiday, so he’d made his excuses, claiming a need to cover the emergencies at the surgery where he’d found a job. As he made his way home, shopping in hand, he debated between making curry and picking up a take-away. He briefly considered making his way to the pub, but decided that after Christmas was probably soon enough.

Deciding he may as well cook, he turned his steps toward home. As he unloaded his shopping, his phone rang with a number he didn’t recognize.

“Hello?” he said, pressing to accept before wedging it between his shoulder and ear.

“What time am I to meet you and where?” said the voice on the other end.

With a frown, John’s hand came up to hold the phone as he straightened his head. “Sorry?”

“You said dinner, but didn’t mention a time or place.”

It registered that the voice on the other end of the line was Sherlock and John smiled. “You didn’t actually say yes,” he replied.

“I see I’ll have to make the plans myself,” Sherlock said. “Angelo’s. 7:30. We can have coffee at mine after.” Sherlock rung off before John could reply.

With a bemused smile, he set his phone back on the counter and finished his task, then took himself off to prepare for his date? Dinner? Regardless, he was pleased to be going out for his meal after all. And not on his own.

As he grabbed his jacket to leave, it occurred to him that his initial offer had been for dinner, movie, and a nightcap at his. And any date where a night cap was on offer before the date even started couldn’t help but be a good date. Assuming this was a date. Surely it had to be a date.

He smiled the whole way to the restaurant.

Angelo’s turned out to be a little Italian bistro in a quiet street not far from the pub where John had met Sherlock. Sherlock was waiting outside when John arrived and John had a brief moment of panic wondering if he was underdressed. Sherlock, in a black suit with a crisp white shirt, was in stark contrast to John’s much more casual dark jeans and button down, though he had grabbed a blazer to finish the outfit.

“John,” Sherlock greeted.

“Hi. Bit surprised you called. Don’t remember giving you my number.”

“You didn’t, but your number is listed on the surgery’s website.” He shifted slightly, fidgeting, and glanced at John’s departing taxi and the door of the restaurant.

“Oh. Yeah, I suppose it is.” John drank in the sight of Sherlock. He looked good behind the bar, but this was something else entirely.

Sherlock glanced at the front of the restaurant then back at John. “Is this alright?”

“Hm? Oh. Yeah. No, looks fine. I’m dressed ok, yeah?” John had the distinct impression that Sherlock was nervous.

“You look perfect. Fine. You. It’s fine.”

Definitely nervous. John smiled. “Right. In we go then?”

It took settling in at a cozy table for two near the window, the proprietor dropping off a candle for the table, and a glass of wine for Sherlock to relax, but once he did, John found him every bit as fascinating as he’d expected. He was pleasantly surprised to find that Sherlock evidently found him interesting as well, asking insightful questions and encouraging him to talk about his time in the medical corps and what he’d been up to since his return to London.

In turn, Sherlock told him about his work with Lestrade (not boyfriend, maybe friend, not exactly a coworker or boss, but they clearly had a working relationship – John would suss out the details later) and shared funny stories about regular patrons at the pub. When dessert was offered, John looked to Sherlock who gave a slow shake of his head after a considering perusal of John. 

“No?” asked Angelo. “I’ll bring you a tiramisu. For with your coffee later, eh?”

As Angelo left the table without waiting for a reply, Sherlock looked back to John. “The tiramisu is quite good.” They continued to chat as they waited. John noticed that Sherlock became tenser as they waited for dessert and as Angelo explained that, for Sherlock and anyone with Sherlock, no payment was necessary. Sherlock became, in John’s opinion, delightfully flustered at Angelo’s hint that he was on a date.

Back out on the sidewalk, John prepared to say goodnight to Sherlock, despite the initial offer of coffee. It hadn’t been mentioned again, and John didn’t want to push the issue, though it had been the best evening out he’d had in recent memory. John felt fairly certain that Sherlock’s nerves spoke for him.

“Thank you for a lovely –” John began.

“I’m just a couple blocks – oh.” Sherlock swallowed and pushed the box with the tiramisu into John’s hands. “Right. Here. Good evening, John.” Sherlock turned and John took a lurching step to stop him with a hand to his elbow.

“Wait. Sorry. Just, I didn’t want to assume anything. Coffee still on offer then?” Sherlock jerked a quick nod, and relaxed slightly when John smiled up at him. “Well, then. Lead on.”

As they walked, John stayed close enough that their hands occasionally brushed and enjoyed the slight catch in Sherlock’s breathing every time they did.

Sherlock’s flat was a tidy sort of cluttered. Books and scientific equipment littered every surface. Sherlock shrugged out of his jacket, draping it over a chair in the kitchen before going to the cabinets. John set the tiramisu on the table and shrugged out of his own blazer, then settled in to enjoy the play of muscles under Sherlock’s shirt as he fiddled. 

“I have coffee,” Sherlock said over his shoulder. “Or tea or whiskey if you prefer.”

“Whatever you like,” John said.

Sherlock nodded and pulled down a cafetière and coffee beans. He made the coffee in silence, wordlessly pulling plates and forks out while the coffee steeped. “We’ll just… through here,” he said, picking up the loaded tray. 

John brought the box with the tiramisu and followed Sherlock. When Sherlock moved to separate the dessert into two portions, John stopped him. “We can just share, yeah?”

Sherlock paused, then handed John a fork without a word. John took it and helped himself to a generous first bite. The rich flavor and silkiness of the cream made him groan and when he looked to Sherlock to tell him he’d been right about the dessert being good, he found his companion blushing and looking a bit shocked.

John cleared his throat. “It’s good,” he said, licking a stray bit of cream from the corner of his mouth.

Sherlock looked to the dessert. “Yes. Angelo’s wife, Maria, makes it. I… I get it every time I go in. Sometimes without dinner.” He took a bite himself.

John laughed. “I can’t say I blame you.”

They chatted while they ate, moving easily from topic to topic. Once the tiramisu was gone, Sherlock shifted on the low couch, pulling one leg under himself to face John. John leaned back, stretching his arm along the back of the couch, his fingertips near but not touching Sherlock’s shoulder.

As conversation petered out, Sherlock asked, “What were you doing last night?”

“Hm? I was looking at pictures with you, if memory serves.”

“No, before that.”

“Oh. I was out with some mates from my school days.”

“Um. After that. At the bar. What were you doing?”

“Stopped in to see you.”

Sherlock huffed in frustration. “No. With the things you were saying. Why were you… did you actually want to,” Sherlock frowned, trying to figure out how to phrase his question more clearly.

“Chat you up?” John supplied. “Yes. I, er. I’ve been trying for months to get your attention.”

“Oh. Why?”

“Sorry?”

“Why did you want to engage me in conversation?”

John smirked a bit. “The usual reasons, really. Initially, I mean, you have seen yourself in the mirror, yeah? You’re quite something.” Sherlock scoffed. “No, you are. Maybe not conventionally attractive, though you are more fit than I originally would have guessed, thin as you are. But striking. Beyond that, you’re interesting. Clearly smart. I don’t know many people in London anymore and just, I don’t know, wanted to make a friend or something.”

“Ah.” The conversation moved on and while there was more that John could have said on the topic of trying to chat up the man next to him, he was comfortable with where it had been left.

Eventually, Sherlock shifted back around, his legs stretching out parallel to John’s. John shifted slightly closer. Sherlock shifted down, his head now level with John’s, his hair brushing John’s arm.

He was saying something about a project he’d worked on and John got lost in the sound of his rich, warm voice. He asked a question and when John failed to respond, he looked over at him. 

“Sorry,” he murmured. “Not the most exciting topic, I suppose.”

John’s eyes zeroed in on Sherlock’s lips and he tilted his head in question. John looked up at Sherlock’s eyes and back to his lips to see if Sherlock would decline. The tip of Sherlock’s tongue peeked out to wet his lower lip. John took that as an agreement and shifted his arm down to draw Sherlock closer.

Sherlock made a pleased, rumble of a sound and John brought a hand up to cup Sherlock’s jaw to guide him closer. The first press of lips was a tease – brief, only just firm enough to make the touch undeniable. John pulled back slightly and glanced up to where Sherlock’s eyes were slowly opening. When their eyes met, John smirked and leaned in again, nipping at Sherlock’s lower lip. Sherlock’s lips parted in response and John pressed his advantage, his tongue darting in.

John could taste the coffee and the tiramisu. Under his thumb, Sherlock’s jaw was smooth and warm. John, for all he’d imagined this, was utterly unprepared for the heat flared up low in his gut as Sherlock shifted closer, his hands coming up to cradle John’s head, a clear sign that he was as interested in the proceedings as John was. John let his hands slide lower, running finger tips over the length of Sherlock’s neck, thumbs across tightening nipples. 

In response, Sherlock groaned, and moved a hand to John’s hip, tugging him closer. Without breaking contact, John straddled Sherlock and felt Sherlock smile against his lips. John pulled back, wanting to see Sherlock, check in just a bit. Sherlock was flushed and panting slightly. John noted, almost absently, that he was panting as well. 

Sherlock’s eyes opened and he studied John with something akin to wonder on his face. One hand clenched and released on John’s hip as he brought the other up to run his thumb over John’s cheek. John cupped a hand around Sherlock’s neck and brought his face down to bump his nose to Sherlock’s. Sherlock tilted his head up in response, touching his lips briefly to John’s, then pressing in more firmly, his tongue seeking entrance to John’s mouth.

John felt Sherlock’s hands begin to tug at his shirt where it was tucked into his jeans and arched into Sherlock when his fingertips hit bare skin, ghosting along his waistband then up his spine. He brought his own hands forward and started unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt, eager to feel Sherlock’s skin under his own palms. He pulled away slightly to tug Sherlock’s shirt out of his trousers then pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s jaw, then throat as Sherlock’s head fell back to rest on the back of the couch as he panted.

Sherlock’s hands continued to move restlessly against John’s back as John explored Sherlock’s neck with his lips and chest with his hands. Without John realizing it, Sherlock had unbuttoned John’s shirt forcing them to separate slightly so he could tug it off before tipping them to the side where he proceeded to explore John. His eyes and fingers started at the edge of John’s jeans, ghosting over the fair trail of hair there and sliding up along his abdominals. 

John felt himself tense under Sherlock as Sherlock reached his shoulder where the scar – the physical reminder of why he was no longer fit for service – stood out in angry relief against his otherwise smooth skin. Sherlock glanced up as he ran gentle fingers over the puckered skin. He maintained eye contact as he pressed a warm, open-mouthed kiss, laving the area slightly with his tongue. John groaned, his eyes closing. He felt Sherlock smile and move on, pressing kisses to the hollow at the base of John’s throat, his opposite shoulder, his fingers continuing there exploration of John’s sides and stomach. 

Eventually John grew restless, and, in a move perfected during basic training, reversed their positions on the couch. John looked down at Sherlock, who looked back startled and a bit nervous.

“Ok?” John asked softly, panting.

Sherlock hesitated, then nodded.

“Too fast?”

Again, Sherlock hesitated, but shook his head no and drew John down into a kiss again. John could sense Sherlock was still nervous, which chilled his own enthusiasm slightly. It was always better when all participants were on the same page.

That resolve was swiftly thrown out the window when Sherlock’s legs spread slightly wider and he used that leverage to buck up into John. John and Sherlock groaned in unison as firm flesh met firm flesh in vivid proof that they were, in fact, on the same page. Entirely on the same page.

Sherlock pulled his head back and looked up at John. “Bedroom?”

“Bedroom,” John replied, moving quicker than he had in some time to let Sherlock up so that he could follow wherever the other man would lead.

The moment they crossed the threshold, Sherlock swiftly unbuttoned, unzipped, and dropped his trousers to the floor. The sight brought John up short as his mouth went dry as the sight of the long, smooth back, the dimples at the base of his spine and the absolute proof that it wasn’t just the cut of his trousers.

Sherlock turned, hands on hips, just inside the waistband of his boxer briefs. “Joining me?” he rumbled.

John huffed out a laugh. “Oh, yes.” He returned the favor and dropped his own jeans.

“Fuck,” was Sherlock’s breathy response as he realized that John had nothing under said jeans.

He reached for John and John replaced Sherlock’s hands at his hips, shoving pants down as he backed Sherlock toward the bed. Sherlock sat as his knees hit the bed and John used the height advantage to kiss him again, reveling in the feeling of skin on skin shoulder to hip, calves, knees, thighs. Sherlock’s hands had returned to roaming John’s back, ghosting along his spine, his scars, kneading the muscles of his arse, causing John to groan.

John pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s neck and pulled back. There were so many things he wanted to do, he couldn’t decide where to start, so he asked, “What do you like?”

Sherlock blinked up at him. “Like?”

John grinned and bumped his nose into Sherlock’s again. “Like.”

“Uh. Anything.” Sherlock shook his head as though trying to clear it only to repeat, “Anything.”

John gave a half nod, his smile softening. “Right. Scoot back.”

Sherlock did and John followed him onto the bed. 

“Lube?” John asked. 

Sherlock nodded and looked to the bedside table. John pressed a quick kiss to his lips and reached over to open the drawer. On top was medical grade lubricant and further into the drawer were a couple things John felt he might want to investigate later – he firmly suppressed the brief thought of “If there is a later.”

Sherlock was watching him, his lip drawn between his teeth. John laid down on his side and tugged Sherlock down next to him. “Hand?” John said. Sherlock held out his free hand, his head propped up on the other. John put his hand on Sherlock’s hip and moved them closer. As their erections brushed, John squeeze a dab into his own hand, tossed the tube over the side of the bed, tugged Sherlock’s hand down with his and wrapped them around their erections. 

Both groaned, John’s head falling back as Sherlock’s came forward, his forehead resting on John’s shoulder. Sherlock laced their fingers together and John set the pace. John could feel every pulse and tilted his head down to nudge Sherlock’s up so that he could kiss him again. He wasn’t sure he’d ever get enough.

On an upstroke, Sherlock ran his thumb along the steadily leaking heads and John’s hips jerked forward. He increased their pace and the room quickly filled with the sounds of wet flesh and panting breaths. John felt it the moment before Sherlock climaxed, the tightening of his muscles and the tension in his fingers. John tightened his fingers slightly and Sherlock came, his orgasm pushing John over the edge.

As their breathing evened out, Sherlock reached over and grabbed a discarded towel from the end of the bed and wiped them off. When he flopped back down next to John, John pressed a quick kiss of thanks to his lips then shifted them both up to lay on the pillows, snuggled together, John on his back, Sherlock curled along his side, his arm thrown across John’s waist.

John nuzzled the top of Sherlock’s head and wondered briefly if he should leave.

Sherlock answered that unasked question with a sleepy, “Stay?” 

John hummed an affirmative response and tugged a blanket over them. He drifted off, more content than he’d felt in a while.

He woke the next morning to Sherlock drawing circles on his hip with his thumb.

“Morning,” John said.

Sherlock made a rumble of acknowledgement. John moved his hand to the back of Sherlock’s neck and stroked the skin there softly.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice was soft.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for staying,”

“You asked me to.” John grinned to himself and pressed a quick kiss to the top of Sherlock’s head. “Plus, when one takes a bartender to bed, it’s hard to pass up on anything they want to offer.” He felt Sherlock stiffen. “Besides. You bought dinner. I think I owe you breakfast at least.”

“I didn’t actually buy dinner, you know,” Sherlock relaxed slightly, tilting his head up to look at John.

“Shh. You provided dinner. And coffee. And a bed that is far more comfortable than my own.” John grinned down. “I may also be hoping that an additional few hours together will be enough to convince you to let me take you out again some time.”

Sherlock flopped over onto his back and John took the opportunity to run his hand down the lithe frame, smiling a bit when a certain part of Sherlock’s anatomy showed interest in the proceedings. 

“Or we could stay in,” John let his voice trail off suggestively as his hand wandered lower. Only to stop with a laugh when Sherlock’s stomach rumbled. “Showers and breakfast?” John asked, sitting up.

Sherlock flopped forward, his arms wrapping around John’s waist. John ran his hand along Sherlock’s side before smacking his arse and shifting forward out of Sherlock’s grasp and off the bed.

“Come on, then. Up with you.” John tugged him out of bed. “I have plans for you later, but you’ll need your strength.”

“Promises, promises, Doctor,” Sherlock said as he slid out of bed after John.

John bit back a grin as he looked up at Sherlock. “Hey. Do you have a map?”

Sherlock’s lips twitched. “Sorry?”

“A map? I keep getting lost in your eyes.”

Sherlock threw his head back and laughed and John thought he’d never seen anything quite so amazing.


End file.
